


Although We Never Will

by perfectlystill



Category: iCarly
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-11 20:11:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfectlystill/pseuds/perfectlystill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The house is packed with other college students grinding on each other, shouting and singing and gulping beer out of cliché red cups. The music vibrates through her and Carly will remember thinking it is just like a movie, just like she always imagined college to be, Sam at her elbow.</i> Alternatively titled: iTake Sam to a Party.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Although We Never Will

**Author's Note:**

> Title and epigraph from Vienna Teng's "Unwritten Letter #1."

_breathing whisper what is this  
bent so close we nearly kiss  
although we never will_

 

 

Carly and Sam go to college.

Carly goes to college, and Sam goes to college.

They do not go to the same college.

But they go to a party together, just one, at a fraternity house that smells like sweat, the air burning Carly’s nose like alcohol burns down her throat, a green shag rug under her feet, green like puke that will tinge the air as the night goes on. The house is packed with other college students grinding on each other, shouting and singing and gulping beer out of cliché red cups. The music vibrates through her and Carly will remember thinking it is just like a movie, just like she always imagined college to be, Sam at her elbow.

She always imagined college with Sam.

But they do not go to the same college, so this is party is all she will get.

 

 

 

 

 

**one.**

In the basement of the fraternity house there are several couches from different eras—one from the nineties with curved arms and plaid fabric, one from the seventies all straight edges with an orange and green print, one wingback couch that used to be white but has dulled with age and various stains from cigarettes and beers and things Carly doesn’t want to think about, her noise scrunching when she looks at it.

Carly and Sam sit on the couch from the seventies, smashed against each other, the arm digging into Carly’s side as people pile next to them.

One guy with shaggy hair and long brown eyelashes reaches into his pocket and pulls out a sandwich bag filled with joints. Carly feels her heart accelerate, her palms sweat. She rubs her hands against her jeans, the rap music from upstairs filtered through the ceiling and the crack under the basement door. She feels the beat more than hears it.

“Bullshit,” Sam says to the guy who is practically sitting in her lap, dark hair, pupils blown wide. “You’d die if you ate a whole bag of saltines in five minutes.”

Carly feels heat burning up her body, watches the flame of the lighter dance as the guy with the joints lights up, sucks in, his cheeks hollowing out, the bones in his face angular, sharp. Her vision starts to blur as the heady scent of pot wafts around the room. He hands the joint off to a girl sitting next to him, fishes another out of his baggie, lights it.

Repeat.

Carly watches, Sam’s thigh pressed tightly against hers, Sam’s voice murmuring in her ear as she argues with the moron sitting next to her--Carly _knows_ he would die if he ate an entire bag of saltines in five minutes. She saw it online after Spencer made an attempt and she thought about doing it on iCarly. She didn’t think it would be good if someone died while they were broadcasting live, even if Sam begged her to let Gibby take a wack at it. Going to prison for manslaughter was not on her list of things to do before she died. Carly’s pretty sure she’d die _in_ prison.

But Carly watches, the flame crawls up her vision, the boy’s lips cherry red, ripe and plump and wet, like he’s just been kissed, his tongue wetting them every other joint. Carly watches and Carly feels, Sam’s knee hard against her own, Sam’s curls brushing against her cheek, Sam’s shoulder hitting hers.

Carly watches and Carly feels and Carly takes the joint that’s handed to her.

Her throat is dry so she coughs.

The smoke seems to settle in her lungs, heavy, and her chest feels compact, like instead of expanding it shrunk, pressed itself together, hard. She coughs again, takes another drag and feels Sam’s hand brush against her arm, her thumb catching the inside of Carly’s elbow. Carly blinks, turns and stutters her next breath out.

Sam smiles, lips quirked up, says, “You’re a rebel, Shay.” She says it like she’s impressed, like she expected Carly to have panicked ages ago, pulled on Sam’s wrist, yanked until Sam was standing up, until Carly was marching her up the stairs and out of the house, out of the party.

But Carly only gets one party with Sam, and she’s not going to leave it early, especially with Sam saying, almost challenging, _You’re a rebel_.

 

 

 

 

The story can diverge from here.

In universe one Carly nods her head slowly, lets herself return Sam’s smirk, agrees, proves it. Carly leans in and presses her lips, dry and chapped from the joint, against Sam’s, lets them slot together like it’s where they belong and where they’ve always wanted to be--which is a lie. Carly hasn’t always wanted to press Sam up against a wall, their bodies aligned, her hand curled firm over Sam’s hip, but she wants it now. She’s wanted it ever since she went off to college and realized the first boy she kissed from her physics class had curly blond hair and a mouth that tasted off.

So she kisses Sam now, not quite high, just the beginning stages of it tugging at her skin, her bones, buzzing at the back of her head. And Sam kisses her back and the boy she was arguing with hollers somewhere outside Carly’s consciousness and she can still feel Sam’s hand, delicate and unsure, on her arm, at the crook of her elbow.

In universe two Carly laughs softly and shakes her head, her new bangs falling in front of her eyes when she tilts forward, whispers into Sam’s space, says, “No, I’m not.”

“The weed in your hand disagrees.” Sam reaches out and takes the blunt and Carly watches her roll it between her thumb and index finger before taking a hit, the paper damp and crumpling between Sam’s lips, soft and pink.

Carly stares, breathes in the smoke when Sam exhales, breathes it in and hates how it masks Sam, how it’s just weed, how it doesn’t tell anyone it was in Sam’s mouth, doesn’t smell the way she does in the morning, snoring in Carly’s face, or before lunch, hip-checking Carly, or before they go to sleep, rustling the covers and pulling them down down down because she says it’s too fucking hot, never mind the fact that Sam always ends up stealing them in her sleep.

So Carly leans in, swallowing at the smoke, thinking maybe it’ll taste like Sam does. And Sam will laugh, low and throaty. “You look ridiculous.”

And Carly won’t respond, the pot working its way through her veins. And then before the signal reaches her brain, before she can think it through--before she can overthink it--she will be leaning in too far, her lips resting against the corner of Sam’s mouth, pressing softly and shyly.

Sam laughs, but her laugh opens her mouth and Carly kisses her better, slips her tongue in and swallows the sound like she’d like to swallow Sam’s heart. Sam presses her hand into Carly’s knee, the other going up to tangle in her hair, to press her palm against Carly’s neck, hot skin against hot skin.

Or maybe, maybe Carly just rolls her eyes and lets out a low laugh and doesn’t lean in, just passes the joint to Sam and lets her eyes droop shut, lets herself memorize the pressure of Sam’s thumb on her elbow, her knee now pressed sharply against her thigh, her hair tickling her cheek. Carly memorizes it as if it will never happen again, as if she will never be this close to her best friend again, as if this, right here with a bunch of boys they don’t know in a basement at the only college party they will ever attend together, is all she will get.

 

 

 

 

**two.**

Sam snakes her fingers around Carly’s wrist and pulls her towards the ping pong table. “Let’s beat these bitches.”

“Sam,” Carly whines. She’s really not interested in losing a game of beer pong, ending up slightly tipsy and embarrassing herself in a room full of drunken strangers. They probably wouldn’t remember, but she would, and she knows it’d be enough to make her blush whenever she’d passed them on campus. “I don’t wanna.”

“But you gonna.”

Sam’s grip tightens on Carly’s wrist and she yanks her a little harder, the pads of her fingers digging into the prominent blue veins on Carly’s wrist when Carly attempts to pull away. “Fine, but just one game.”

Carly hears Sam mumble something under her breath as she shoves someone out of their way and bumps against the boy standing at the table. “We wanna play.”

The thing about ping pong and beer pong and every kind of pong she has ever played is that Carly is terrible at it, the whole hand-eye coordination thing never really sunk in as a child or a teenager or a college student, and it just gets worse as she has to down a cup of beer, cheap and dull as it slides down her throat. She doesn’t grimace, it’s not that strong, but Carly has always been one for girly, fruity drinks, the ones that come in bright colors and taste more like sugar than anything else.

“Carls,” Sam whines after the ball plops in the second to last cup on their side and the guy with dark red hair fist pumps in victory, high-fiving his partner. “We’re gonna lose and it’s all your fault.”

“I told you I didn’t wanna play.”

“You could have told me you suck really bad.” Sam pokes Carly in the ribs with her elbow.

“Drink up,” the redhead calls from the other side of the table and Sam turns to glare at him before wrapping her fingers around the cup and swallowing.

Carly watches Sam’s knuckles, so pale against the bright red cup, watches her lips, pink and damp when she finishes and practically slams it on the edge of the table, out of the way. A piece of her hair is stuck to her mouth and Carly reaches over to touch it, to move it away.

There is a part of Carly that will always work as though her life is a romantic comedy. So she thinks of tucking Sam’s hair behind her ear, of letting the tips of her fingers brush over the shell, of Sam looking at her and only seeing her, not all of the people grinding in the background, not hearing the two idiots across the table telling them to take their last turn because they’re going down, but seeing her and maybe making the first move, or maybe they’ll make the move together--in the movies they always seem to make the move together, both leaning in, both wanting it just as much as the other even if they don’t know, didn’t know less than five minutes ago.

In universe three, Carly decides to fuck it, she decides that even though she’s not drunk, even though she’s nowhere near drunk, she could blame it on the alcohol like she’s Jamie Foxx and lean in and kiss her best friend square on the mouth. So she does and Sam freezes a moment, surprised, before kissing her back, her hand resting lightly on Carly’s hip before settling there, steady and sure.

When they pull away to breathe the two boys on the other end of the table and few other party-goers are staring at them, eyes bulging out of their heads, a frat guy whooping and fist-pumping in the background. Sam leaves her hand on Carly’s hip and says, “My turn,” picking up the ping pong ball to throw it.

But maybe Carly knows her life is not a romantic comedy, so she just pushes the hair away from Sam’s cheek, watches it pull gently from her lip. “At least we get more alcohol,” Carly says, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Excuses, excuses,” Sam says. But there’s a soft tone to the words as she picks up a ping pong ball and lobs it across the table, missing a cup by an inch and groaning in frustration. “We’re doomed.”

“Hey!” Carly smacks her arm. “I could make my shot. And they could miss theirs, and we could come back and win it all.”

“This isn’t Rudy.”

“It could be.”

Carly reaches across Sam to grab a ball and takes a deep breath, focusing before throwing it at one of the stupid red cups. She thinks about how Sam pretends to hate romantic comedies and how she mostly does, but she also thinks about how Sam cried that time Carly made her watch _13 Going on 30_ , wiping her eyes and complaining about all the dust and how Spencer should hire a maid before curling into Carly’s side, resting her head on Carly’s shoulder. Carly thinks maybe Sam sees life like a sports movie, but then she thinks Sam probably doesn’t think about life or movies that much anyway.

She misses the cup she was aiming for but the ball plops in the one in front of it, and then Sam’s screaming, throwing her arms in the air and turning to Carly, her eyes wide with surprise and excitement and maybe a little bit of pride. “Suck it losers.”

“Sam, we haven’t won,” Carly says.

Sam just rolls her eyes.

The redhead misses his shot, but his partner sinks his and they lose, but Sam doesn’t seem to care anymore, lacing her arm through Carly’s and pulling her away, whispering loudly in her ear about how she actually has some sort of athletic ability in her, and Carly thinks maybe it’s tucked somewhere inside her bones and she just doesn’t know how to access it.

She thinks maybe her courage is there too, hiding in the marrow because this, Sam’s mouth brushing her ear, Sam’s arm linked with hers, is all she will get.

 

 

 

 

**three.**

They are barely inside the door when Sam grabs Carly’s hand and pulls her through the crowd, complaining that she’s fucking starving even though they just got dinner.

When they get to the kitchen there are beer bottles littering the counter, a few people leaning against it, standing near each other and talking, a game of poker set up at the kitchen table, more than a few people squeezed in, and Carly feels a little claustrophobic just looking at them, chips piled high.

Sam goes straight to the fridge, dropping Carly’s hand and yanking the door open. “There’s like, nothing in here but a bunch of beer and ketchup and cheese.”

“What’d you expect? This is a frat house.” Carly sighs and leans against the wall, fiddling with the bracelet around her wrist before taking the cheese slices that Sam hands her.

“Don’t eat them,” Sam instructs.

“I promise I won’t eat your cheese slices.” Carly rolls her eyes and crosses her ankles, leans her weight even further into the wall.

The music is quieter in here than it is in the living room, but it’s still clear, the bass thumping and the rapper spitting words out harshly. It’s nice though, like the floor isn’t vibrating, isn’t causing her legs to shake like jelly. Carly feels steadier in here, even under the harsh light in the center of the room that makes her feel like she’s squinting. The light doesn’t quite reach the edges and Carly wants to move to them, stand in the corner with the shadows and just relax.

She didn’t realize she was so tired until now. She should have realized though, she stayed up until 3 A.M. last night finishing a paper, and then Sam was visiting and it was like Sam was energizing her, because Sam is always bouncing around and pulling her along and handing her cheese, the plastic around the slices sticking to her palm.

“Jackpot! Carly, there’s beef jerky!” Sam reaches for it in the top cabinet, standing on her toes and grabbing a handful before turning to Carly, a smile cracking her face, wide and bright. “This is the best party ever.”

Carly rolls her eyes again but she can’t keep the answering grin off her face. “Cheese and beef jerky, what more could a girl want?”

“Ham, a passing grade in sociology, to not have to take her Latin final because it’s a dead language and what is even the point?” Sam says, nudging against Carly and peeling the plastic cover off one of the sticks of jerky before taking a bite and chewing thoughtfully.

“It was a rhetorical question.”

“Such big words.”

“We’re in college now.”

“We’re geniuses.” Sam says, swallowing. “We’re smarter than Freddie.”

“He’s in college, too,” Carly reminds her, feeling their arms brush together, Sam reaching for her hand and grabbing one of the slices of cheese. Carly knows that there’s a crinkling noise when Sam peels it and throws the wrapper onto the counter, next to the place she threw the wrapper for her first stick of beef jerky, but she can’t hear it over everything else, over Sam being so close.

“We’ve always been smarter than Freddie,” Sam says. Carly just looks at her, eyebrows raised until she amends, “We’ve always been better than Freddie.”

“I like you more than Freddie,” Carly says.

And in one universe she lets her gaze flicker slowly from Sam’s mouth to her eyes and back again, watches Sam bite her lip and look at Carly curiously, seriously, face open and bright before Sam is responding--she shouldn’t have been surprised, she was the one staring at her best friend’s mouth.

When Sam presses her hand into the small of Carly’s back Carly can feel the sticks of jerky between them, blocking Sam’s fingers. Carly drops the cheese to the floor--it’s wrapped, it’s whatever, it’s nothing compared to Sam pressing into her, pressing her body back into the wall except for where her hand is, a stick or two of jerky falling out of her grip. Carly accidently stepping on them.

Sam doesn’t seem to care much about the cheese or the beef jerky anymore either.

In universe five Carly leans her head on Sam’s shoulder, buries her head in Sam’s neck because the lights are bright, says it again, “I like you more than Freddie.”

They stay like that for a few minutes, Carly’s eyes closed, breathing in against Sam’s warm skin, Sam’s hair tickling Carly's cheek as she eats. When Sam finishes she crumples all the remaining wrappers together before tossing them onto the counter and Carly turns her head, leaves it on Sam’s shoulder but watches the plastic scatter among the beer bottles.

“You’re messy.” Carly means to say, _This is messy._ She means to say, _I like you more than Freddie because I like you like you_ .She wants to say, _I like you like you and that’s messy because you’re my best friend_.

Sam says, “This is a frat house.”

Carly can hear her eye roll and suddenly Carly is so tired and she buries her head in the crook of Sam’s neck again and she’s murmuring, “But you’re a girl.”

And then before she can think about it she’s presses her lips against the curve where Sam’s neck runs into her shoulder, she’s kissing her way up Sam’s neck and Sam is breathing out, “Carly,” like she doesn’t want Carly to stop.

Or maybe Carly doesn’t do any of these things and Sam just laughs, says, “You better. Freddie sucks.”

“You like me more than you like Freddie?” Carly asks, the last few slices of cheese still in her hand.

She already knows the answer, but her heart feels like it skips a beat in her chest when Sam says, “duh.”

 _Duh_ is all she will get.

 

 

 

 

**four.**

The music is loud, insistent, the beat thumping quickly, vibrating in Carly’s bones like a metronome dictating the beat of her heart, the normal thump-thump becoming and quick thumpthumpthump-thump-thumphthumpthump. Her movements don’t quite match the rhythm, she’s a little off, a little slow or a little fast, but it’s fun, freeing, even if she’s slightly self-conscious, doesn’t know how not to be.

Sam is pressed close, blonde curls swaying back and forth, swaying the same way her hips sway, a smile spread across her face, eyes dark and shining. She’s not the best dancer either, most of her moves simple, smooth, but occasionally she’ll jerk to the left or the right or wack someone in the arm or face and turn to yell at them, telling them to “watch what the fuck you’re doing,” her eyes turning harsh and accusatory before she focuses on Carly again.

Bodies press into Carly too, people walking through the crowd moving to the kitchen and the basement and other parts of the house, people dancing to their friends, fingertips accidently hitting her shoulder blades or elbows knocking against her own, sharp and bony but not hard, too quick and accidental to be painful. It’s nice, to be swallowed by the crowd, to be connected to a group of people she doesn’t know, won’t remember tomorrow when she sees them in the cafeteria, nice to be part of a whole, nice to be part of that with Sam.

And then Sam is pushed by someone walking behind her and yelling for some girl named Stacey, pushed right into Carly’s space--not that Carly had a lot of space to begin with--hips hitting hers, arms reaching out and grabbing Carly’s shoulders to steady herself. Carly feels Sam’s breath cool against her cheek and nose and can’t help it, can’t help but look at Sam’s mouth, slightly parted, pink and plump and so, so close to hers.

Carly thinks she doesn’t even have to lean forward hardly at all to touch her lips to Sam’s, it could be an accident, she could pretend someone elbowed her hard in the back, pretend she stumbled, too.

In a different universe she does get pushed into Sam, their bodies flush against each other in the crowd, people moving in to the space they were forced to give up, Carly steading herself with her thigh between Sam’s legs, Carly realizing where her thigh is and grateful the lights are turned off, grateful Sam probably can’t see the blush spreading over her cheeks, the heat of it spreading down her neck. She’s looking at Sam’s mouth, her collarbone, then back up at her, Sam’s eyes intense but not angry. Carly realizes Sam’s not moving away either, feels Sam’s fingertips pressed into her thigh, one hand splayed over the small of her back.

Sam kisses her first.

Her lips are warm, pressed lightly against Carly’s, mimicking the press of their bodies. She tastes salty, like ham and chips and something that Carly can’t place but thinks maybe is just Sam, distilled and solid against her. Carly’s mouth opens under Sam’s, and suddenly she’s needy and wanting and there’s not enough, not enough Sam, too many other bodies and not enough Sam. Sam slips her tongue into Carly’s mouth, slips her hand up the back of Carly’s top, and Carly feels like she’s being kissed for the first time, like this is different from anything else, from Freddie and Griffin and not just because Sam’s a girl, not just because Sam’s her best friend, but because Sam is _Sam_.

In another universe when Carly gets pushed she laughs, letting her forehead fall against Sam’s shoulder, forehead sticky with sweat, hair stuck to it and Sam’s skin when she exhales and pulls up, shouts in Sam’s ear, “There are a lot of people here.”

Sam presses her mouth next to Carly’s ear and Carly’s eyes flutter shut. Sam says, “People who don’t know how to walk.”

Carly laughs again because she doesn’t know what to do when Sam’s so close. She says, “Apparently,” because she doesn’t know what else to say, but knows she doesn’t want to let go just yet. She wants to memorize what Sam’s hips feel like slotted against hers, what Sam’s hair feels like curled and frizzy against her cheek, Sam’s nose against the shell of her ear.

And she wants to kiss Sam. And then she does, moves her head as though she’s tired, dropping it with exhaustion, stuttering her lip’s against Sam’s, soft and barely there. She panics for a second after, eyes screwed shut, exhaling a laugh that she doesn’t even believe, but then Sam’s kissing her back, harder and fuller and not at all accidental.

Sam grinds her hips into Carly’s and Carly gasps in Sam’s mouth, Sam slips her tongue in and everything is sharper, brighter, Sam’s hipbone and Sam’s teeth and Carly twisting her hand in Sam’s hair, pushing closer and closer because it’s not enough. And she feels like Sam’s pushing closer too, like they’re both hurtling towards each other and before it was slow, so slow Carly thought she was the only one moving, but now it’s fast and she knows she isn’t, knows she wasn’t.

But maybe none of this happens. Maybe when Carly gets pushed, stumbles forward, she makes sure to tilt her head, to knock foreheads.

The music is too loud to hear but Carly sees Sam say, “Ow.”

Carly yells an apology, moving away before she does anything stupid as Sam rubs her palm against her hairline, shoots a glare at the people around them even though she doesn’t know the culprit. Sam asks, “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

And then Carly shakes her head, shakes it off and keeps dancing, so Sam keeps dancing too, and Carly keeps watching Sam dance and thinks maybe this is all she will get, Sam dancing at a party, so close but not close enough, almost what she wants but not quite, and when she bumps her hip into Sam’s later, laughs loudly into Sam’s shoulder and brushes her lips against the warm skin she finds there, she thinks it will do, she thinks she’s okay with this, with this being all she will get.

 

 

 

 

**five.**

The party is loud and the bodies make everything feel hot and suffocating, like the walls are moving in and Carly’s taking deep breaths between gulps of beer. Sam’s standing right next to her, arm to arm and hip to hip, and it’s both steadying and dizzying at the same time. Carly’s stomach feels heavy and her throat feels dry and her eyes feel like they’ve sunk back into her head. She’s a little tipsy and a lot sleepy.

“I’m gonna get some air,” she yells in Sam’s ear.

“Okay.”

“You’re not gonna get lost and drunk if I leave you here?” Carly’s worried Sam will maybe do both of those things plus get arrested if she’s left alone at a fraternity party.

Sam huffs in indignation and rolls her eyes dramatically. “No.”

“I’m just gonna be out back and if you come find me in half an hour we can get ice cream.”

“Deal.” Sam grabs Carly’s hand--the one not holding her beer--and shakes enthusiastically, smiling widely. “Now get out of here, cupcake, the faster you go the faster I get my ice cream.”

Carly laughs but pushes off the wall they’re leaning against and walks toward the kitchen, blinking in the bright lights, moving by the table where a bunch of people are playing poker and sliding open the door to the back patio, stepping outside. The night air hits her hard and sharp and the door slams shut behind her.

There’s a grill and a picnic bench and a wide expanse of grass littered with footballs and soccer balls and plastic cups like the one in her hand. Carly sits on the picnic table, runs her finger along the wood and finishes the last of her beer. Her head feels heavy so she makes a pillow with her arms on the table and closes her eyes, takes a small breath and then a deep one and tries not to think about what Sam could be doing inside.

Carly spends a lot of time trying not to think about what Sam is doing, so far away from her at a different college, so far away like she doesn’t exist, like maybe Carly made her up inside her head, like maybe she’s this part of Carly that Carly has lost and sees everywhere but it’s not really hers. It’s like that time in first grade when she lost her favorite teddy bear and then kept thinking other people’s teddy bears were hers, but they never were because her name was written on the tag. So when she thinks she sees part of Sam she blinks and it’s just an illusion, just the kind of coffee Sam likes or the shirt that Sam wore the last time they were together or the smell of Sam’s shampoo.

It can’t be more than ten minutes later, goosebumps starting to pop up on Carly’s arms, when she hears the sliding door open and close and then she looks up and sees Sam standing there, smiling and bouncing on her feet. “Ice cream?”

“Yeah,” Carly says, sitting up and blinking a few times.

“You okay?” Sam sits down next to her, smile fading a little, eyes curious and focused. “You’re not gonna vomit on me are you?”

Carly laughs. “No.”

“If you did you could just buy me extra ice cream to make up for it.”

“Sam,” Carly says, “I’m not going to throw up. I promise.”

“Carly?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you want to talk about something?” Sam tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and bites down her on her lip.

“No. Why?” Carly shakes her head, knits her eyebrows together and tries not to look worried, tries not to look like she’s lying. Because she really, really does not want to discuss how much she wants to kiss Sam and run her fingers through Sam’s hair and nip at the curve of Sam’s shoulder.

So she’s not lying.

Honestly.

“You’ve just been acting a little,” Sam pauses, taps her knuckles against the wood a few times, “I don’t know. Nevermind.”

In universe seven, lucky number seven, Carly blinks slowly and looks at Sam carefully, sees Sam look out across the yard, studies her profile, the way her chin tilts down, the way her eyelashes cast shadows against her cheek in the moonlight. She studies Sam so carefully she forgets to look away when Sam turns to face her, forgets to look away when Sam shifts closer, when Sam leans in and Carly’s breath catches and Sam asks, quiet and unsure and so unlike Sam, “Can I?”

Carly doesn’t forget how to speak but she’s afraid of what her voice will sound like so she just nods, and when Sam kisses her it’s soft and deep and her hand on Carly’s cheek is warm, the rest of her cold from the wind.

When Sam breaks away, leans her forehead against Carly’s shoulder, she mumbles, “I’ve been wanting to do that forever.”

In universe eight Carly doesn’t look at Sam, instead she looks at her hands and plays with the ring on her finger, the one Sam got her for her birthday last year. Carly’s never taken it off and when she twirls it in class or while studying there’s a tan line and an indent, the skin always slightly red, like there’s not enough blood.

This is why she says, “Sam?”

And when Sam turns to her Carly kisses her, gentle, hand tangling in her hair like she’s always wanted to, her other hand resting against Sam’s hip, pressing up so Carly’s touching skin, so her ring is cold against Sam’s skin and her palm is warm and Carly can’t feel that one tiny sliver, the metal blocking her, the metal pressing cold and Sam’s skin pressing hot.

Sam’s hand snakes around, palm flat against Carly’s neck. Sam says, “Well I guess that’s not talking.”

Carly laughs, buries her head in Sam’s shoulder before kissing it, before kissing to her pulse point, feeling the beat under her lips so differently than she felt the beat of the music inside, feeling it and knowing that Sam exists, Sam is real, Sam is right here with her.

Or maybe Carly just stands up while Sam looks over the yard, wonders what Sam is thinking and doesn’t ask, just reaches out, grabbing Sam’s hand and pulling her up. “Let’s get ice cream.”

And maybe Sam’s resounding whoop of excitement isn’t loud, but her smile is, and when Sam laces their fingers together and pulls Carly around the house, squeezing once, maybe that is all Carly will get.

 

 

 

 

 

Carly and Sam go to one college party together.

They go one weekend when Sam is visiting Carly, and this is the only party they will go to together and this party can go many different ways. Carly can choose her own adventure, A or B or C.

This is what happens: Carly and Sam dance, Carly and Sam drink beer, Carly and Sam rummage around the fridge for food and Carly opens the door to the basement but smells the weed and slams it shut, coughing while Sam pats her back and laughs, her entire body shaking with it, shaking against Carly. They go outside and let the cool night air wash over them, they talk until their teeth chatter and Sam says she wants ice cream, so Carly takes her and treats her to the largest cone they have.

They go to one party and it is everything Carly imagined it would be.

They go to one party and it doesn’t have to be all she gets.

It doesn’t have to be. But it is.


End file.
